"Mother"
Author's Rant: This would be yet another pokemon one-shot. Kinda bland, kinda pointless, but it is here. It takes place between two original characters of mine, more specifically a daughter and a mother. The story takes a peek at a more personal side of trainerism.
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When you had no children, no husband, no elderly mother to take care of, household chores lost their potency—over time. The effort lessened and eventually you wished you had more to do besides your own laundry. Instead of mopping the kitchen three times a week, you did it once a day, even though you cooked solely for yourself or maybe for a potluck. Beds were always made, sheets always clean, little things always undisturbed and typically dust-free. And then what was there to do but sit on the sofa and watch TV?
Yuki was fairly certain she was going insane.
'Sitting and watching'; just a euphemism for any activity that acted as a filler for the gaps in her life. Sometimes she went outside and talked to the other ladies from Pallet. This wasn't bad, just sad. There were occasional trips, becoming more and more frequent, to Viridian Town to shop for groceries.
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She set her laundry basket on the floor of her bedroom, sat on her bed, and went through it, sorting. Nothing was faded or wrinkled. She folded everything, sorted it in stacks of blouses, slacks, undergarments, and cotton sweats. One dress, one pair of denim jeans. She found the dryer sheet and threw it away. Then , grunting with satisfaction, she lifted the basket and carried it back to its origin. In the hallway, she noticed the carpet was too fresh on her bare feet. The light from the windows was too bright. She suddenly felt cold, and goosebumps broke out on her forearms.
Sometimes the house got so empty. The emptiness, on occasion, snuck up on her, and it was always on the days when she felt separated from the rest of the world. If she went outside, it became too real. Even inside, the things she touched felt far away. She couldn't talk with the neighbors or walk up to Viridian.
So she swayed down the hall until she met the corner, where an unopened door caught her unfortunate attention. Keiko's old room, almost never touched on the grounds that she could be back any day, penniless and defeated. Whereupon, she would finish school and work odd jobs until she landed a position as a PA for a hotel manager. But it would never happen. It was a stupid fantasy, and there was no possibility that anything of the sort could ever occur, because Keiko was now seventeen years old and successful if there ever was such a thing. Once, during an early phone conversation (when that sort of lucky thing used to happen), Keiko told her that she was making two, three hundred dollars on her good days. And that was just average against traveling trainers. Depending on who she fought, she could make even more. Hearing this disappointed Yuki in a way she knew was unhealthy.
She opened the door to her daughter's bedroom.
Inside, the air was stale and cold. The texture of the carpet changed under her feet. She hadn't touched this room in well over a year, and then only for a quick cleaning. The walls were still pink.
Oh, Keiko.
Her daughter had always enjoyed watching televised battles, and it was true that growing up in Pallet fueled any interest she may have had. She volunteered more than once to do work in Oak's lab. That may have had its merit. But her real enthusiasm did not show until she was fourteen.
Don't you think it would be fun? Was her original question. Of course it would be fun, for a time. Keiko started bringing home simple handbooks from the Viridian library. Eventually you'll get tired of urinating in a hole in the ground, Yuki said for no reason. This may have been a joke anyway, but Keiko didn't care much to discuss it.
I want to be a trainer, she said one night. They were watching a Chinese soap opera at the time, and for some reason the incompatibility of the statement and the TV show pissed Yuki off. Ludicrous, she thought. Keiko wouldn't seriously pursue it though, and if she did, the most that it would end up as would be a house pet with the ability to shoot sparks or release spores.
Keiko read the books. She took the class, one of three students under Oak's authority, special because she was the only Pallet-towner he had had in months, and because she lived five minutes away. Then she took the test—four hours worth of questionnaires, essays, and demonstrations. They even taught her how to stitch wounds.
She ran home, happy, to show her mother the grade sheets.
I can sign for a license any time I want, and Oak said I could have one of his starters.
Yuki had been disinterested and maybe a little scared.
Three days later, a pet carrier was left on the front steps. Inside—Yuki dropped a soup spoon in her shock—was a pup Vulpix. It was just a baby, and female. The sender was anonymous. Yuki speculated either Oak or Richard had sent it, but these theories weakened as time passed. Eventually it ceased to matter.
Keiko let the Vulpix run in the yard during the day, fed it pokéchow and table scraps at lunch, and let it sleep in her room at night. She listed a fair reason: having fire as its most physical element, staying warm and dry was purely good maintenance. And we live right next to the ocean, Mom.
Her room was confused but fitting. Pink walls, decorated by posters of the Petal Dancers' debut concert, interesting school papers, and magazine articles. Stuffed animals sat in organized piles. She used to sleep with an Abra doll, for God sakes...
-
Yuki went to the shelves near the head of the futon and knelt down. Trophies and plaques sat gathering dust. One said: HANA KEIKO - Independent Pewter Valley Tournament - CHAMPION - 7 win victory. Another, a plaque, said: Confusion Bar&Grill - contest winner - KEIKO w/ Vulpix.
Keiko used to send these things home. Now she was a respected name and in anticipation her awards were gladly held behind glass displays in hotels and pokéclubs and Centers. Oak had a few.
"I love it when they do so well," he told Yuki one day. Yuki didn't really mesh with Oak. He was old and weird.
When Keiko got her license, Yuki had no convincing reason not to let her leave, even though it hurt to think about it. She purchased for her daughter a new jacket, a book on local flora and fauna, and — especially — a pair of trainer's gloves. The day she left, laden with tent, sleeping bag, food, and backpack, Yuki had grabbed her and tickled her until she relinquished a hug.
"You're going to leave me all alone in this house!"
Keiko laughed like it wasn't true, and Yuki told herself that her daughter would be back. She had read statistics in magazines that comforted her: more than a quarter of all beginning trainers quit within two months. Sixty percent of those remaining trainers failed to make a fair living from their training alone. Smaller still was the number of celebrity, sponsored trainers. A tiny, random fraction became great. Why was Keiko any different? Why did she have to be?
Keiko never did come back. She visited once before crossing the hills to Cerulean, but the reunion had been awkward. Phone calls used to happen, but not anymore. Something had happened between them, maybe several things, and Keiko never called and never wrote. Oak sometimes dropped by to tell Yuki when a certain match was due on TV, or when Keiko won a Gym Badge. Then he'd be gone, back into the sterile shadows of Pallet's laboratory.
Sometimes he did field work, too. He wore a lab coat over safari khakis and smelled like sunscreen.
Other than those brief encounters, Keiko's life was mostly a mystery.
-
Piled on one of the shelve's corners was a small stack of letters. Most of them were handwritten correspondence from Keiko, envelopes of all colors and sizes, stamped and addressed to Pallet. Carefully she opened one, unfolding the crisp stationary. The Marts and Centers sold purposefully colorful paper for all occasions. This particular piece was beige and had a border flowing with red, green, and blue. At the bottom, a stylized Meowth sat in a pile of coins, happy to be surrounded by money.
The letter said
Hi, Mom. Writing from Cerulean. The Center here smells like chlorine, but I guess that makes sense. There's more than one pool.
Doing great. Going to a local match soon. Everyone says I'm going to lose 'cause I'm not well-rounded.
Not well-rounded? What the hell did that mean? She put the letter back in and put it at the back of the pile without closing it. Another envelope was addressed from the Kanto Police Force; that one had scared her, but it was just a legal notice explaining Keiko's financial emancipation. She chose to flip past that one and picked one further into the stack. She opened it and pulled out another letter. The paper was not the usual heavy stationary, but had a Vermillion Pokemon Fan Club header. In the blank space below, Keiko had written:
Three badges down! Vermillion's Gym Leader, won over last night.
The analyst said my vulpix and hitmonchan are in stellar condition. Honestly, what am I going to do with them?
Boring. Yuki stopped there, slipping the letter back in place. She stood up, banging her head on one of the upper shelves. Silently she touched her head, patting waves of black curls. Keiko's hair was the same color but as straight and dull as hair could get. It fit her, though. She didn't have the face for curls.
Now uncomfortably cold, Yuki scanned the rest of the shelving. Most of the items had become faceless again, but she was drawn to a misplaced envelope. It had not been opened despite the fact that it was postmarked a month ago. Yuki tried to remember why, then recalled that it had been sent home with an unimpressive trophy. To be frank, she had been put off, and the gift caused just enough distraction. Not at all thrilled, she peeled it open and scanned the letter. It was handwritten on heavy, decorated paper, and had been partially damaged by a light rain.
Mom
I'm writing from Route 8. Lots of trainers here, all from schools and institutions and other like me, but there's so much space, it doesn't matter. It's nice out here, I can't kid you. I'm doing well. Sorry I don't write more.
I'm not feeling very well. Hope things are better back home.
Love
The letter unsettled her. She set it on the shelf and left the room. All traces of animosity vanished and were replaced by a strange sense of unease. After all, Keiko's problems were her problems, in a sense...Her handwriting had been distracted and messy. Not that it usually wasn't. Her baby didn't feel well?
But it must have been much worse than that, much deeper.
Someone knocked at the door. The sound pulled her out of her mild stupor; it was a loud, authoritative knock. She wrung her hands on her dress and went to the front door, opening it slowly and looking out into the light.
A Viridian mail-woman was standing on the porch. She took a bundle from her satchel and handed it to Yuki.
"Mail call." She said.
The mail to Pallet came twice a week from up north.
"Arigato."
She let the door close behind her as she flipped through the envelopes.
There was nothing from Keiko.
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END